Alone Alan would have failed. Even with Ruth helping him he could not have hoped to succeed so soon. But his grandfather had left researches only a hair's-breadth from completion ... and the young couple had finished them. Even so, the thing had come almost by accident. Alan was far from sure that he could again compound the strange, unstable mixture of rare chemicals from which his nameless alloys were made--alloys which formed the plates in the time-batteries. But at least he had enough for this one brief trip. Alan was curiously sure that this one trip was all he needed to make--that, after it was done, the curious driving compulsion that had seized him three years before would leave him, his task completed. Alan glanced again at the time-dial. The transition was slowing now; he had hardly been aware that a moment ago he had decreased the current. 1699-98-97.... The retardation was progressive. It was almost as though the apparatus itself were dictating his stopping point. And then the date 1650 flashed into his mind. That was when he had to stop. It was as though he'd always known it.... Was this a cave, here at his back? He was aware that he was sitting at its entrance, facing the shadowy declivity and the deep woods through which he could see the broad, gray river. An instant later he shoved the lever to shut off the current. The shock of the halt made his senses swoop. Then, as he steadied, with the ground solid under him, he was aware that it was night. The hum of the throbbing electroidal current was gone. But there was still a pulsing note in the air--the throbbing voice of the deep forest through which the river was shimmering, pallid in the moonlight. * * * * * Alan staggered to his feet, steadied himself. A shaft of moonlight was on him; and abruptly in the dimness of the cave he heard a sound. A man's muttered, astonished exclamation blended with the startled high gasp of a girl. As he turned, he saw them. The man was hardly more than a boy--twenty, perhaps, and garbed curiously in gray blouse and brown, baggy pantaloons, knitted brown stockings and thick, clumsy shoes. The girl was even younger, a slim little thing in a quaint bodiced dress with her braided flaxen hair tumbling forward over her shoulders in double strands. Terrified, wide-eyed with utter astonishment, they mutely gaped at Alan. "Well," he said at last. "Do you speak English? I'm sorry I don't speak Dutch--that's your language, isn't it? This is Dutch New Amsterdam?" He checked himself and sighed. The Dutch boy and girl were gulping, numbly staring at him. They didn't speak English, of course. It would have been too much of a coincidence ... but so welcome, if they had. "I'm sorry," Alan went on, not hopefully. "Look here, I don't want to frighten you. I only want to know--"